


The Hills are Alive

by objectlesson



Category: Wildboyz RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, drunk steve-o, puke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 20:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2745620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve-O's drunk and stirring shit up, Chris is sad but pretending he's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hills are Alive

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I wrote more fic about these guys, it's always an absolute pleasure. I don't own them, this never happened.

When it happened, it wasn’t at all how Chris imagined it would happen. Then again, Chris kind of imagined it happening on a green hillside, on a blanket of edelweiss, with Julie Andrews serenading them in the background or something. Realism was never really a part of his hooking-up-with-Steve-O fantasies, because he was pretty fucking sure it was never gonna happen. Like ever. Certainly not during some drunken midnight chicken game in the Brazilian jungle. 

They were sitting outside their tents, these crappy canvas things held up by sticks because that’s how broke they were this season. Everyone was shit faced, Manny and the camera dudes and the crew and of course, _of course_ , Steve-O. Steve-O’s eyes hadn’t been able to focus for a whole hour already, at least. Chris was starting to sober up, because it always kind of scared him when Steve-O was this drunk. He’d been half-worried for years that if he got too drunk in Steve-O’s presence, he’d wake up naked in Steve-O’s sleeping bag with no memory of what went down the night prior. Yeah, it was best if when Steve-O’s judgement was compromised, Chris’s _wasn’t_. 

Plus, someone had to tend the fire. It was a little terrifying, and the last thing Chris needed was to accidentally burn down Brazil. It crackled and raged, painting the canvas tents in orange chaos. The smoke kept changing direction with the wind, sometimes blinding Chris, other times making Steve-O cough and hack mouthfuls of thick beer spit into the dirt.

“There was that one time I fucked that Spanish girl. What was her name? Paloma?” Steve-O remembered, throwing his head back, the fire-light flickering in undefined ghost shapes on the line of his throat. His hand tightened on his beer can and it made a crackling noise. “I was _soooo_ in love with her!” he crowed. 

Everyone around the campfire laughed. Chris was no exception. He took a swig of his own beer, though, face darkening when Steve-O’s eyes leveled up again, glossy and brown in this distant, stoned way. Steve-O always said this, about every girl who he thought was hotter than a five and gave great head. Pretty much every girl who hadn’t broken his heart or he hadn’t regretted sleeping with. _I was so in love with her_. Chris had gotten really good at pretending to think it was funny. 

“No, No dude, you don’t even _understand_ ,” Steve-O slurred. “She was fucking _unreal_. Like. Like. Lemme show you what she did to me. This was my favorite part of filming in Spain,” He blabbers, standing very unsteadily and nearly toppling into the fire. Chris, of course, rocketed off the ground, standing to prevent Steve-O from being incinerated. His hands slid across too much sweaty, sticky skin. Steve-O smelled like a distillery, and because Chris might be a masochist, it made him kind of hungry. 

“Ok. Dude,” Steve-O said, too close to Chris’s face. The fumes were intense. He clumsily steered Chris to a plastic cooler, the kind that reminded Chris of family BBQs and the 4th of July, the kind Wee-Man could hide inside to fuck with people. Chris was half-doubled over in wheezy laughter, that was the only way to deal with a mostly naked, very drunk Steve-O ordering him around so that he could demonstrate what some Spanish chick named Paloma he was supposedly in love with did to him in Spain. Chris plopped down on the cooler, grinning madly. It was the kind of grin skulls wore, the kind you couldn’t get rid of, the kind you were doomed to wear for the rest of eternity, while cities burned down and shit. While your best friend wobbled in front of you wearing nothing but a layer of Brazilian jungle grime and a leopard print thong. 

“So. First off,” Steve-O explained, all but shouting in Manny’s face, using Chris’s shoulder to steady himself. “You’all should know she was like...like wearing.... _nothing_. But a bikini, and body grease shit, the glittery kind, and we were at this swank-ass hotel,” he gestured to his own chest, pantomiming in such a way which led Chris to assume that Paloma might have been a little top heavy. 

Steve-O swayed in the firelight, blunt nails digging into Chris’s shoulder. “And I’m at the jacuzzi or something, sitting on the edge, and she, she _fucking gets out_ after being on my dick all night and saying Spanish shit at me, and does this,” He stepped with one foot out of an imaginary hot tub and onto the cooler where Chris was sitting, half straddling Chris, lap dance position. The bulge of his dick in all its leopard print glory was inches away from Chris’s face. 

“So she was like this. Like, _right_ in my face. I would have smelled pussy but that place was so cracked out on chlorine,” he explained, nearly falling over as he looked over his shoulder at the rest of the guys. They were all clapping and hooting and bellowing and cracking up. Chris was laughing too, albeit a little less exuberantly, considering any exuberance on his part could have resulted in a faceful of balls. Steve-O tipped, and Chris instinctually grabbed him around the waist to again reduce the odds of death by fire. 

He didn’t think of how that might have looked to everyone else. His hands rising to grip Steve-O’s waist while his dick was inches from his mouth. Needless to say, the circle erupted in hysterical laughter and catcalls. Steve-O’s body blocked Chris’s view of their reaction, his laughter making him weak as he doubled onto Chris’s body, forcing Chris to hold him up. Leopard print brushed against Chris’s stubble. He learned he was not drunk enough for whiskey dick. 

Chris resisted the urge to push Steve-O off and into the campfire. His dick was twitching in his camo shorts, and that felt kind of disastrous. Steve-O’s dead weight ground against him, he was trying to stand while he kept babbling somewhat incoherently about this Paloma lady. He righted himself, (with Chris’s help) and said, point blank and entirely too articulately, “Dude, you want my dick in your face? Seemed like you dug that.” 

There was nothing left to do but snort in laughter, to rip his hands off of Steve-O’s sweat and booze sticky skin and play it off as some gay joke like he always did. Super familiar territory here, flirting with Steve-O under the guise of it all being some huge, brilliant butt-prank. An endless game of chicken. Because it wasn’t like this was the first time this had happened or anything. Steve-O pretty regularly climbed all over Chris, pushing it further and further until his lips were a breath away from some line-crossing place on Chris’s body. And then, always, always it dissolved into hysterical laughter, on Steve-O’s part. Chris had gotten really good at pretending to think it was funny, too. To grin like a skull. 

“Yeah dude. Your _huge_ dick. In my face. I’m drooling in an-tith-ipation,” Chris answered, throwing a lisp in to make it extra ridiculous. Then he batted his eyelashes, licked his lips. Then he cracked up, hands flying up to Steve-O’s waist again because he almost sent them both sprawling into the dirt. 

Steve-O was full on straddling him now, narrow, hairy thighs spread to accommodate Chris’s broad lap, dick in its absurd fucking leopard thong pressed into Chris’ abs. “Oh yeah? How about this? You feel it growing?” he snickered, grinding against Chris, eyes bloodshot and half-lidded. The laughter in the circle had died down, replaced with Brazilian cricket song, crackling fire, and dumb-silence. Someone wolf-whistled, and there was some weak, nervous laughter. 

Chris shook his head. Steve-O was probably trying to be snarky, but beer made him dumb, and instead it just sounded like he was actually playing-sex with Chris. It was awkward. Chris’s insides were twisting up over it, and he didn’t even care that this was a mess and Julie Andrews was nowhere to be found. He wanted to kiss Steve-O, he wanted to bite his stupid bottom lip and suck it into his mouth, he wanted to show Steve-O this thing that he knew about, but Steve-O was too dumb to have realized yet. But it seemed so obvious. Chris set his jaw tight, and licked his lips again. “Dude. Did Paloma do this to you, too? Or you just-”

“I dunno,” Steve-O slurred, nodding dangerously close to Chris, a hair’s width away. Chris almost rolled his eyes, well aware that Steve-O was just fucking with him, just pushing him to the edge, getting as far as he could let himself get without it starting some serious cognitive dissonance in his mind. Whatever. One day, he would go too far. And Chris would be there, ready to meet him, at long fucking last. 

Chris didn’t think that day would be today. In fact, he was pretty sure that day might never come, that Steve-O’s internalized homophobia or whatever it was called, (Chris might have done a google search or two) was too strong and it was never destined to be, no edleweiss, no Julie Andrews. Just a lifetime of wistful want. 

But then. Steve-O’s wet, sloppy mouth was sliding against his, beer and spit and smoke and Chris was almost too shocked to kiss back. Then instinct took over, and his hands were sliding up Steve-O’s back, palming sinew and muscle and then threading up through dirty hair. 

The guys around the campfire were all fucking screaming. It was really annoying. One yelled, “Guys! Are you _making out_?” And another yelled, “Finally!” and there were also the sounds of a few of them getting up and stumbling away to choruses of disgusted laughter. Chris was really getting lost in the slick insanity of Steve-O’s mouth when the cacophony of upset dudes snapped Steve-O out of whatever body-driven trance he’d fallen into. He pulled away, a string of saliva connecting two pairs of lips. 

Chris cracked up. It was all he could do. Join the hyenas in their laughter. He didn’t even know if there were hyenas in Brazil. For a dude who starred in a nature show, he actually knew shit about nature. Deep guffaws bubbled up from his stomach, dissipating whatever tension was pulled taut around the campfire, and everyone else followed him, roaring in hilarity. Everyone but Steve-O, that is, who was stumbling to his feet, really drunk and really confused. He looked kind of lost, like he’d totally forgotten that there were a bunch of people around, or that this started because he was explaining the legend of Paloma. His eyes, hazy and blinked, locked on Chris. He wiped his mouth. Then, he started gagging. 

It was magnificent gagging, as all Steve-O’s gagging was. If there was a single most fucked up thing about Chris Pontius, it was all the times he had jacked off in a hotel bed while Steve-O puked loudly and violently in the bathroom. He’d done it so many times his blood was doomed to rush to his dick every time Steve-O started retching. Steve-O retched a lot. Chris was kind of over the shame of the whole thing due to prolonged exposure. 

He bent in half, laughing desperately but mostly covering his vomit-induced boner. Steve-O had smashed his way into the dark of the jungle, spewing impressive amounts of frothy, booze puke onto the vegetation. The circle was deteriorating, everyone filing off into their tents, escaping the smell and the fire-tending responsibilities. 

Chris stayed, grinning into his palms long after Steve-O stumbled miserably, messily to his own tent, not before telling him, “That was fucked up, dude,” like the whole thing was Chris’s fault. The fire raged on, but Chris figured it would die out eventually, go back to just being a pile of ash and carbon and nothingness, all one big gay joke, a butt prank. An endless game of chicken. His mouth tasted like Steve-O’s spit. He grinned wildly, just in case anyone came out and saw him, they’d still think he thought this whole thing was funny. He’d gotten really, really good at pretending he thought it was funny, after all. 

\---

Chris spent the night lying awake in his own tent trying in vain to forget the kissing thing ever happened. Instead of actually forgetting anything though, he ended up replaying the scenario in his brain over and over again in a state of delirious half-sleep, and jerking awake every fifteen minutes or so to poke his head out of the flap to make sure he really did, indeed, put out the fire, and wasn’t actually responsible for reducing the Brazilian jungle to ash or anything.

It was not a restful night. Chris woke up bleary-eyed and grumpy, mouth still seemingly stinging with the wet slide of Steve-Os lips. He brushed his teeth three times, stomping out into the wilderness to do it in a half-assed attempt to find Steve-O’s puke puddle, which he wanted to spit his toothpaste onto. To purify the night’s sins. Or just join his spit with Steve-O’s. Chris didn’t even know anymore. 

Back at camp, no one else had even emerged yet. They were all conked out, drooling onto their pillow cases or whatever, hungover and missing out on this glorious Brazilian dawn. Chris hadn’t woken up at dawn since the last time Steve-O did something confusing, and that time he had only grabbed Chris’s dick in a bar and it might have even been on accident. Last night was a whole new level of trouble. Dick grabbing was one thing, but lip-locking was an entirely different ball game. Chris was pretty sure it was a lot easier to accidentally grope your best friend’s junk than it was to stick your tongue in his mouth. He’d just spent hours analyzing this, anyway, and that was his formal conclusion, albeit one reached at 4am in the middle of a jungle. 

Chris sat on the cooler and rubbed his face with both palms, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do until Steve-O woke up. The problem was, Chris _really_ needed to know what last night was. What it meant. If it was just Steve-O’s Paloma demo gone too far, or if it was years worth of repressed homosexuality brought mysteriously to the surface courtesy of shitty beer. Or if it was, by some miracle turn of events, Steve-O actually waking up and _seeing_ the thing that had been brewing, unspoken and unacknowledged, between them for the last five fucking years. It seemed unlikely. But Chris could hope. 

Unfortunately, Chris wasn’t even sure Steve-O was gonna remember last night, let alone want to or be able to explain what it meant, why it happened. The notion of Steve-O’s selective amnesia was actually kind of comforting. Emboldening. Chris swatted a mosquito on his arm, leaving a tiny smear of his own blood in his arm hair. He made a decision. It might have been a rash one. 

He crouched down awkwardly and let himself into Steve-O’s tent, mind made up. Steve-O was sleeping on his side, curled up like a big naked, sleep-sweaty puppy. Chris shook him awake, a hand on his shoulder. It took awhile, but eventually Steve-O was grimacing, batting Chris’s hand away and blinking pathetically like something gross and newborn. “Dude,” he rasped, still smelling very much like alcohol. 

“Hey,” Chris said dumbly. He realized he had a flaw in his plan. He had intended to wake Steve-O up in desperate search for closure, but he hadn’t planned very far in advance exactly what that closure might look like. Or even how to get it. He laid there, jungle-floor debris biting into his side since all that was separating him from nature was a thin layer of tent nylon. He supposed that was step one. “Can you scoot over? I need to be on the sleeping bag. There are sticks in my ass.” 

Steve-O looked less than pleased to be roused at dawn by someone so chipper and demanding, but he managed a weak, coughing laugh. “Sticks up your ass?” he said hoarsely. “I could help with that.” He scooted over, allowing Chris room to move closer

Chris cocked his head, shifting towards him tentatively. He didn’t know what Steve-O meant by his comment, exactly. He wasn’t sure he would have even noticed if Steve-O would have said something along those lines yesterday but now, now. Now everything seemed different. He frowned. “I couldn’t sleep.” 

Steve-O’s absurdly long lashes fluttered down against his flushed cheek. Chris wanted very much to reach out and smooth them with his thumb. His hand was ready to do it, raised and poised between them. He dropped it instead, letting it rest somewhere on Steve-O’s forearm. “Hey,” he repeated. Then he sighed. He was just gonna do it. Chris did painful shit all the time, and he’d figured out after years of experience that the best approach was to not think about it, and just take the plunge. All the animals who had ever bitten him, and all the punches and all the tazers he’d stomached had hurt way worse the more he thought about it, the more he built up the anticipation and anxiety around the actual act. He applied the same logic here, though this was way scarier than any snapping turtle he had ever offered an appendage to. “I couldn’t sleep because I kept thinking about last night. I couldn’t stop thinking about you kissing me.” 

He felt his cheeks color. Steve-O’s eyes snapped open, two shining spots of stunned black. “I kissed you last night?” he asked, making a face. It wasn’t a face Chris could really read, not in the dim dawn-light and not with his own sleep-deprivation clouding his judgement. There was a line through Steve-O’s brow, and his lips were pursed, but at least he wasn’t puking at the very mention of the incident. 

“Yeah dude. With tongue. And then you threw up.” Chris couldn’t even fake it, couldn’t even keep the hurt sound out of his voice. It would have been mortifying if Chris was the kind of guy who was capable of feeling embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve-O answered automatically, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. His cheeks were a violent red. “That sucks.” 

Chris didn’t really know which part Steve-O was sorry about, and which part he thought sucked, the kiss or the tongue or the puke. It wasn’t the response he expected, and that made him feel a little better, so he kept going. “It’s okay. I mean you didn’t puke on me, you puked on Brazil. Apologize to Brazil if you want.” 

Steve-O shook his head, eyes squinty. “No. I mean I’m sorry I kissed you.” He hid behind his palm, so Chris couldn’t see what was going on. He wanted to reach out, to pull his hand down, to smooth his hands through his hair and beg him to do it again, just once more, sober this time, do it right. Give him a chance to show him how good it could be. Instead, he just curled up tighter around the flicker of heat in his gut, confused. 

“Don’t. I mean don’t be sorry about that part. I liked it,” he admitted. The words felt very weird just hanging out in there with them in the tent, these huge words with years worth of affection and desire and uncertainty attached to them, just sitting there. So easy. Chris was kind of holding his breath, waiting for the world to end. It didn’t. 

Steve-O peered through his fingers, studying Chris. “You liked it.” 

“Yeah. Liked it. Loved it, actually. Would have loved it more if you hadn’t been drunk and pretending I was some Spanish bikini girl,” Chris confessed it all. It was distantly comforting that at any moment, one of them could start cracking up and shatter the tension. Make it all one big gay joke, one big butt prank. A game of chicken, waiting for the other to back down. Chris waited for it, but Steve-O just laid there, very still, the tent close and humid with their combined body heat. 

Steve-O covered his face again, and through his hands mumbled, “Chris. Fuck. I can’t tell if you’re kidding, and dude if you’re kidding, I swear...”

And Chris couldn’t stop himself anymore, it couldn’t take it, the distance, the uncertainty, the roiling mess of confusion. He thought he might have heard Julie Andrews singing somewhere, giving him the ol’ go ahead, so he did it. Reached across the space between their bodies and pulled Steve-O’s hands from his face, took his own shaking hand and cupped the side of Steve-O’s fever-hot face, neck, hair. “No. No. I am so serious right now can’t you tell how freaked out I am?” his lips were close to Steve-Os, dipping down towards that mouth he should have been grossed out by considering the last time he’d seen it it had been dripping with puke, but just looked pink and chapped and kissable and good. He rubbed his brow into Steve-O’s, laughing a little bit. “I’m laying my fucking heart out dude, take me seriously,” he begged. 

Steve-O laughed back, nervously, reaching up and very, very tentatively resting his hand on the side of Chris’s shoulder. “So I kissed you, huh? with tongue?” 

“Yeah. But you straddled me and put your dick by my face first. I didn’t stand a chance,” Chris explained, feeling kind of floored that Steve-O might not have been as stupid and clueless as he thought he was about this whole thing. 

“Christ,” Steve-O mumbled, cringing. “I should quit drinking. Since I clearly can’t control myself. And you said there was some Spanish chick?” he asked, getting more confident with his hand, which was combing through Chris’s sweaty, forever-tangled mess of hair, snagging it gently, pulling the loose, frizzy curls over Chris’s shoulder tenderly. It felt weird, but good. 

“Uh huh, you were using me to show everyone what this Paloma girl did to you in the jacuzzi in Spain.” 

Steve-O scoffed. “I definitely made that up as an excuse to grope you. I do shit like that all the time when I’m drunk, you’re so dumb you never notice. Dude, do you even remember that hotel in Spain? We spent the whole time hanging out in the room raiding the mini-bar and playing X box. If I had been scamming on girls, you would have known.” 

Chris took a moment to consider this, that they were inseparable in Spain, that Steve-O hardly left his side. He wondered why he hadn’t remembered that last night, and if he had been so blinded by his boner that he missed it, or if he has been as self-handicappingly dense as he assumed Steve-O had been this whole time. He nodded solemnly. “I don’t think I give you enough credit.” 

Steve-O shrugged. “I obviously didn’t give you enough credit, either.” He very, very briefly let his thumb slide across Chris’s bottom lip. The touch was so electrically charged it almost hurt, and Chris’s stomach dropped in response. 

“So if you wanted to bone me this whole time, then why did you puke afterwards?” Chris asked, voice quiet, low. 

“Maybe because I was shitfaced. Or maybe because I was trying to keep appearances. Who know dude, I was blackout. I think the most likely excuse is that I realized that I was doing and got so nervous I freaked out. It wouldn't be the first time you made me puke from nerves. I puke at everything, dude, it’s a problem.” 

Chris grinned, and it didn’t feel like a skull’s grin at all. It felt very alive. He knew he was staring at Steve-O’s mouth; he wanted to kiss him terribly, so fucking bad it hurt. He licked his lips. “So is it weird if I kiss you, even though you have this puking problem?” 

“I guess so. I mean, I wanted the first time to be good. And I already blew that. So I guess the second time I can be gross, too. And the third time can be the charm. If you still--”

Chris didn’t wait to hear the end of it. He took Steve-O’s chin in his hand and dragged him in close, kissing him hard. He tasted awful, like acid and beer and sleep and Chris fucking loved it, licked into it like it was exactly what he wanted for the last five years. After all, Chris jacked off to the sound of Steve-O’s puke hitting toiler water. It wasn’t like this was something he hadn’t been prepared for when he fell in love with the guy in the first place. 

Steve-O whined into the kiss a kittle bit, made a fist in Chris’s hair and pushed up against him, sweat-damp legs twining in a clumsy embrace. It wasn’t the alps and there was no edelweiss, but Chris thought he might be able to hear Julie Andrews singing, high and sweet, in the distance.


End file.
